Porsek screams as the arced energies ground themselves through him. He remains standing, face staring at the cold duracrete ceiling, venting his pain.
The energies subside, and he looks at his attacker. The translucent blue old man gathers himself to launch another attack. Porsek leaps sideways, rolling, evading the lightning bolts blasting from the spirit's outstretched arms.
Porsek is moving as fast as I can.
I lay there, watching Porsek evade the lightning and my own lifeblood seeping away with equal detachment. Stormtroopers open fire sporadically, and blaster bolts flash through the phantom menace. But the white-clad clones' attacks prove for naught, as the shots fly harmlessly through the old ghost. A stormtrooper falls, victim of a shot meant for the spectral figure.
"It's nothing personal," the old man says as he continues his attempts to hit the nimbly evading Porsek. "You are but a tool to eliminate the first. But your usage is past, and now you're being disposed of."
Porsek says nothing, but he draws a strange weapon from a holster and fires it at the blue man. The electrical burst engulfs the old man, and he appears stunned.
"No," he says. "This won't do." Brilliant light fills the room, and the old man is flesh and blood.
The stormtroopers, finally presented with a target they can shoot, raise their weapons to their shoulders and open fire.
The old man is astounding. He moves with a fluid precision normally reserved for atheletes a fraction of his age. The room is filled with the whine of blaster fire, and when it subsides, every stormtrooper but one is dead from friendly fire. The last's neck snaps under the old man's heel.
Porsek and the old man circle, warily. The two come to blows, faster than I can follow. Porsek is young, but his moves are severe, and he overextends. The old man snags a wrist and delivers a punishing blow to the midsection, sending Porsek flying back into a control console.
Porsek screams again and clutches at his back.
A shockwave hammers down at me. Chunks of sharp rock begin falling from the roof as it collapses under the stress. I lose sight of Porsek, the old man, the communications gear, everything. It's all buried under tons of rock.
One falls on me, and I lose consciousness.
When I awake, I am buried alive.
I can't move, and the air is stale and warm. The bullet wound is afire, powdered duracrete turning it to rock. I struggle against the unyielding rock, but only waste precious air. I can sense my own fear rolling off me in waves. I try to blast my way out, but the electrical energy is absorbed with no effect. There's not much oxygen left now.